To the rude and angry man at the M&S Cafe
We had almost finished our luncheon, and were packing up, when you arrived, being angry and rude.

Eschewing the usual pleasantries exhanged at the beginning of a conversation, you chose to angrily snap "Is that your catalogue?" at us.

Believing that for some reason you were interested in the M&S catalogue, perchance to peruse the special offers on knickers, we slid it towards you and said "No, you can have it."

You picked it up, and for some reason this confused you. And made you ruderer and angrier.

You then jabbed at my cup of tea, snapping, "Is this YOUR tea?" My tea sloshed about but, luckily for you, none was spilled. It's a Serious Thing to mess with an Englishman's tea.

I then gathered your drift. You were asking in an angry and rude way if you could share the table with us. But instead of asking in a normal way, you were being a rude and angry tea-sloshing boor.

Realising that you were a rude and angry tea-sloshing boor, I decided to mess with your tiny mind. I summoned up my best plummy English public school accent, and spoke loud enough for everyone else to hear, "I'm sorry, I think you're trying to ask in a rude round-about way if you can sit here. Why don't you just ask if you can sit here politely, and we'll probably say 'Yes'."

Your face began to turn a strange shade of beetroot, and you stammered, "There's no need to be so rude."

I replied, "No, I think you're being rude, but if you ask nicely, of course you can sit there."

Unfortunately, this magnanimous gesture was not taken up. Instead you muttered to your wife, threatening to tip your boiling hot tea over my head. Charming!

You continued to be rude, whilst I continued to ask if you'd like to sit down. Some part of your brain is broken, as instead of sitting down, you continued being angry and rude.

Eventually, we finally asked "Would you like to sit here or not?"

You both replied "No", and we replied "Okay, bye then!", turned away from you, and continued our converation, that you had so rudely (and angrily) interrupted.

You stormed off to find another table, and left your dull-witted wife standing bemused by our table. She confusedly told us that "There was no need to be so rude. You only had to ask."

I corrected her, telling her "No, HE only needed to ask politely." She walked off burbling incoherently to herself.

You eventually, after a few minutes, found another table to sit down, and drank your tea fuming and glaring at me. The other customers were all looking at you and commenting on how rude and stupid you'd been and laughing at you which seemed to be winding you up.

I tried to show that there were no hard feelings by smiling and winking at you, but this seemed to make you even angrier. You were trying to decide whether or not to stand up and come over and make a scene again, and the stand-up-sit-down hovering manouver you were making above your chair as you couldn't decide was so sweet to watch.

We finished our tea, and as we stood up, some normal people came over and showed you how it should be done: "Hello, Are you leaving? Do you mind if we take this table when you leave?" And we smiled at them and told them to feel free, and smiled at you and watched your crimson physog and stand-up-sit-down dance, and the overall effect was that it looked a bit like you were straining to have a poo in your pants.

In retrospect, I think I was a bit of a twat for winding you up...
(Pope Shax XIIIuses Visio for picture editing, does it show?, Fri 13 Apr 2012, 5:40,
8 replies)

I think I have the master twattery story. His involves someone I used to know, not me.
I used to know a tiny little Japanese lass. On New Years Eve 1999 she was walking home at about 3am. A guy comes up to her and says that he thinks she is beautiful and he's going to a party and would she like to come. She says no but the guy keeps persisting. As she tries to walk away from him he grabs her by the hair and then the throat. He starts to drag her away from the street and into a dark alley.At this point her arms are flailing in ineffectual punches. He gets her towards the alley (as far as the side of the road) and she stops flailing.She was only doing that to see if he was armed. Her father was a martial arts instructor and had been teaching her since she was about five (actively practising for over 25 years). She then proceeds to kick the living fuck out of the twat and leaves him in a crumpled heap in the middle of the road.She did this to such an extent that the guy called the police and claimed that she'd attacked him. The police find her, she explains, they check the CCTV cameras, the guy goes to prison.Result:D
(riverghostservicing your mum since, Sun 15 Apr 2012, 14:45,
4 replies)

A further pearost, as it seems I really am a twat.
Subtitle: How I ruined my sister's 40th birthday.

My sister recently celebrated her 40th birthday. All and sundry were invited, and the main living room of her house (no bigger than the Great Hall at Hampton Court, or maybe Wembley stadium) was converted into a function room. Lots of tables with white linen and flowers, hired in caterers and waitresses (did I mention my sister is loaded, the bitch?) and (and here my downfall starts) rather a large amount of wine.

This was the first problem, as I do like a drop or two of tasty, tasty fermented grape juice. The second problem is that I was seated next to my brother in law. We have a rather unfortunate relationship, i.e. we are far too similar. We both have an inappropriate sense of humour (might tell the "guffawing at uncle's funeral" story later) and have a disconcerting habit of trying to make the other laugh at bad times.

Now, the meal had been consumed and we were all sitting around repleat. My sister made a speech, my dad proposed a toast, and all that was to happen was for the cake to be brought in before the tables were cleared away for the evening's partaaying.

Here's where things went downhill.

My sister's daughter was 11 at the time and had just taken up the viola. Now, she had decided that as the cake came in she was going to play "Happy Birthday" on the viola from the minstrels' gallery type thing which overlooked the living room (in point of fact, it used to be a hayloft but now converted for this porpoise.) Anyhoo, as the cake came in, everyone gave rapt silence to my niece as she started playing.

Unfortunately, my niece did not know the difference between a major and a minor key, so this version of Happy Birthday was particularly bleak, as if to suggest that this would be the last birthday my sister, or indeed any of us present, would enjoy. By the third bar I made the fatal error of looking over at my brother in law to see an expression on his face that I imagine mirrored my own: a grim set jaw with a spastic twitch at the corners of his mouth as he was desperately trying to prevent spontaneous lolz-combustion. I was biting hard on the inside of my cheek imagining dead kittens and suchlike to prevent the laughter, suddenly becoming focused on the flower arrangement in the centre of the table.

So far, so good. I could lose my laughter in the applause that was soon to come.

Unfortunately...

Three things happened. First of all, my niece fluffs about the 5th to last note. Now, anyone who has experience with stringed instruments knows that they do not suffer errors gladly, and a high pitched *SCREECH* was the reward. Secondly, my brother in law turns to me, and the unmitigated cunt raises his left eyebrow in a Roger Moore-esque expression of humour. Thirdly, the music ends, and there is a split-second delay before the applause, during which time I am heard to all and sundry to make a noise like a freshly enema'd goose as the laughter explodes. This causes:

1: everyone around me to look at me like I had just raped a small kitten.

2: My niece to run off crying.

3: Me to dissolve into uncontrollable fits of laughter to the point that I feel my jaw is about to drop off.

IKEA twattery
This year, after years of ignoring Valentine's Day, I decided to make the wife something for this Halmark holiday. Making something is not only cheaper, it makes you look like you thought about it and gets extra brownie points.

For part of this creation, I needed a box frame. A quick google revealed that IKEA had exactly what I needed and, by a stroke of luck, I had to go to a meeting just by Warrington IKEA.

So I nipped in after my meeting, bypassed the showfroom and grabbed the frame I wanted, heading to the chekcouts as quickly as possible, lest I get tricked into buying a load of shite I neither need, nor want. Whcih is what normally happens when I got to IKEA.

When I get to the chekcouts, there are three open, with somewhere in the region of 30 people waiting to pay for their trolley-loads of tat. There were self-service tills open, which no-one was using, but I didn't want to use them, as I wanted to pay cash so my wife wouldn't notice I'd been to IKEA without her.

So I joined the back of one of these queues. At the front of the queue were two just past middle-aged WAG-wannabes (who I later notcied had parked their X5 in a disabled space, with no sign of a blue badge). They had a trolley each and were gassing away as the checkout bloke scanned one trolley load. Once everything had been scanned, the first harridan started to pack. Once she had finished packing, she started looking for her credit card.

"Fuck this", thinks I and I walked past all the people queing and said to the second old bag and said "'scuse me, love. I'm only buying this one frame and I'm paying cash, can I just jump in front of you?"

She looked at me and said "No".

There was a proper commedy collective intake of breath from everyone in the queue and the checkout bloke let go of the frame in my hand - he'd assumed she'd say yes and had started to take it off me - and said "sorry mate, nothing I can do"

I then started trying to decide whether to just walk to the back of the queue or to work me way along, asking each one if I could jump infront of them, when the bloke stood right behind the woman I'd asked said "'ere y'are lad, get in front of me".

I said "cheers mate", to which he replied "twat". Seeing the shocked look on jmy face, he said "not you, her". Said twat then turned round and looked at him incredulously, to which he said "Yes, you. Twat."

Parking Twat
This is a tale of someone thinking they own a parking space on the queens highway.

Picture the scene:I am driving to my dear mummy's for Easter Sunday to giveth and receiveth the chocolate eggs that Jesus went on the cross for as is traditional. I spot a ball of paper in the road and think nothing of driving over it as is my want, only for the ball of paper to deliver a spine juddering jolt through my body and deliver what I thought at the time was a fatal blow to my tire.

I pull over and stop the car straight away and go to check the tire which thankfully is intact, so I turn my attention to the paper ball which had attempted to destroy me and my car to see what super material it was made of.

Upon picking it up I discover that to my shock it was not made of paper at all, but was a lump of concrete wrapped in bacofoil, wrapped in a paper sign that said "NO PARAKING!!!!"(Exclamation marks and poor spelling were actually written on aforementioned paper)

To I say was enraged would be an understatement.

So imagine my rage increasing further when I hear coming from the front of the house outside which this car-destroyer is situated "Oi, what are you doing with my bollard?!"I spin round to see a mess of a man, a truly horrific spectre of grim ugliness, I then stop looking in the window at my reflection and raise my head to see a little old lady emerging from her house, rolling pin raised, curlers in, Nora Batty eat your heart out.

Apparently the "bollard" is there to stop people parking in front of her house because it spoils her view, SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A CAR AND THE VIEW IS SHIT.I explain to old lady that leaving rocks disguised as paper in the middle of the road is not appropriate behavior, and that anyone can park on a public road which she disagreed with so I did what any enraged person would do and stole her rock so she could no longer inflict the warcrimes that I had been subjected to!

This displeased the old lady who threatened to call the police, after which I politely told her to fuck off and do one before I stoved her head in with the rock. The tune changed very quickly and she broke down in tears.

Served
I had recently awoken from a 24 hour migraine-induced sleep and was feeling pretty shaky. So, I headed off to the supermarket to get some supplies of good comfort food to get my strength back and generally make myself feel more human again.

So there I was, queuing up to pay like any normal person when, from out of nowhere, a pensioner sailed past me as the checkout that was mine by right became free. To make matters worse, the mouth-breather manning it decided to serve him.

Stunned, I walked up to him and politely explained that there was a queue he had just walked past. "Oh, no," he replied, "I never queue. I just take my chances."

Everyone in the queues' amazement grew as I explained patiently that, in this country, we have a system of queuing that he may not have heard of but served the rest of us pretty well. Nope, he couldn't accept that it applied to him.

So, I am sad to say, that in my enfeebled state my customary politeness left me and I explained to him that unless he moved to the back of the queue he would be making a trip to A&E in pretty short order. (Despite his advanced years, he was spritely and I felt that a ruddy good smack in the mouth wouldn't cause him to die, like so many of his kind.)

At this point the twat stepped back with a comment about young people being rude and that I should show respect to my elders.

Finally, my politeness returned and I retorted "Well, by your age I would have expected you to have learned some manners!"

This brought about much laughter from the others in the queue he had insulted by pushing in front of, plus the mouth breather on the till. Humiliated, he retreated and I paid for my shopping like I should have been able to before that twat barged in.
(give it six weeks and it might clear upwould like to butter your muffin, Fri 13 Apr 2012, 11:33,
26 replies)

Three wheels on my wagon
I have a confession to make: I used to be a Reliant Robin driver. Yes, I know, not exactly the height of coolness, but they have two important features: 1) you can drive them on a motorcycle license, and 2) you can buy one for less than the cost of a full tank for most other cars. I never minded the jokes and insults, in fact I collected them.

And they are nippier than they look, because they're light - about 450kg all up. So while their top speed is laughable -- about 85, though anything over 70 is an "interesting" experience, about as relaxing as owing money to someone whose middle name is "the" -- they do have decent acceleration. It's possible to leave people standing at the lights, which is fun, and a guaranteed way to get a certain kind of driver really, really annoyed. Somehow, they think that it's an insult to their manhood to be burnt up by a plastic pig.

My favourite was a guy towing a caravan. He was doing a steady, reasonable speed, maybe 55 or 60 mph. No problem to overtake. But as soon as I moved back over to his lane in front of him, he sped up, indicated and passed me - simply to drop back in and slow down again, once he was back in front.

This happened three or four times; every time I passed him, he'd try to get back in front. Clearly he was insulted by the thought of my shit-brown (apart from the mismatched yellow door) little pig having the temerity to think it would ever be allowed to be in front of him. Naturally, our speed began to creep up each time. By the fourth time he re-passed me, we were approaching 70mph, and the caravan was rocking and fish-tailing, threatening to turn over - but still the idiot had to get back past.

In his foaming, wheel-biting rage he clearly hadn't seen the police car which was now in front of me, and which he also had to pass in order to complete the manoeuvre. It's safe to say they weren't impressed as a caravan went past bouncing around like a toddler on espresso.
(moon monkeyis busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 16 Apr 2012, 14:09,
15 replies)

My Fuckwittery, Part 745 of an Ongoing Series
I'm not really 'into' cars. Hence when I bought my most recent motor a few years ago, it was my first experience of central locking. The salesman was very helpful, guiding me through all the features, including this whizzy new remote-control technology.

He showed me the car-key, which also sported these two magic buttons. He then explained;

Him: "So you push this one to unlock... *press* *whirr* *flash* *click*"Me: "Wow!"Him: "And this one to unlock... *press* *whirr* *flash flash* *click*"Me: "Wow!"Him: "Now, when the battery gets low, you'll find that you need to hold the button down a bit longer. That's how you know it's time to change the battery"Me: "Gotcha. Agh! Hang on though! What if I don't get around to changing it, and it goes totally flat?! What if it goes flat when I'm away from home and nowhere near the spare key or a battery shop?!?!"*salesman looks at me* *salesman looks down at car-key* *salesman looks back at me* *salesman looks back down at car-key*

The twat twatted her clean in the twat.
Ladies and gentlemen: a pearost

I was once in one of Newcastle's classier* late night drinking establishments, of which there are many. It was a Wednesady night, which was student night. The particular special of the night was double vodka and cokes for £1.50. Now, myself and my esteemed colleagues (more about them in other posts if I can muster the courage) were not that fussy about the nature of the beverage, as long as it was cheap, so vast quantities of vodka and coke were purchased and drunk. Repeat....

Anyway, we were by no means the only people acceeding to the "let's get absolutely wankered on cheap russian falling over water". There were many ladies present, mostly being perved over by my mates. I took the opportunity to leave and have a slash. The toilets were off a short corridor from the main dancefloor. As I entered said corridor, a refreshed young lady came towards me, slipped and fell over. However...

1: Her legs went in opposite directions.2: One heel got stuck in a crack between a floortile and the wall.3: The other shoe went flying off.4: She split her gusset.

So, there she was, lying in the birthing position, clunge on view to the general public, crying copiously.

Twat Cat
This is a friends story. Said Cat is a twat because its a fish thieving scoundrel and moreover I was going to fit this answer in to whatever this weeks question was regardless of relevance.

Twat cat enters my friends Garden and promptly proceeds on over to the pond to do some fishing. A number of fish have gone missing out of the pond lately so there's now a fence around it to stop any herons, who were getting the blame. The fence has 3 horizontal wires but with the bottom wire removed to allow smaller birds to get to the pond for a drink. Unaware cat is unaware however, because this is an electric fence. Cat crawls through the wet grass and safely under the fence. The greedy little fiend pokes his paw in the water, scouting for the ponds chubby residents. Getting all excited like he is however now unaware of what he's doing with his tail, which brushes the wire behind him. Mayhem ensues as cat shoots 5ft in the air, does 2 backflips and lands on all four paws. In the middle of the pond. Poor thing swims out and sprints out the garden, presumably to go dive on its owners bed covered in pond slime and old leaves.

I've met many a twat in my life
but one encounter sticks in my mind, for some particular reason. I certainly met bigger twats than this person, but this one just irritated me in a particularly special way.

A couple of years ago I was doing technical support at the college I work at in the evenings. This basically involved me sitting on reception waiting for people to ask me for help. I would also be the first point of contact for people walking in off the streets. Sadly.

And so, at 6:50pm, a woman walks in to enquire about the courses we run. She was around 40, and your typical sort of middle class privileged hippie type. The conversation went like this:

Me: hi, are you ok there?

Woman: Yeah, what is this place?

Me: We're a media training college, offering course in post production for film and TV.

Woman: Oh right, is there someone I can talk to about courses?

Me: I'll be able to give you any information you need on our film and TV courses, also we have a prospectus here that you can take that has all the information you need in it.

Woman: Who is the head of department?

Me: Richard is the head of department.

Woman: Can I speak to him?

Me: I'm sorry, but he's about to teach a class [our classes start at 7pm]. If you've got any questions about the courses though, I'll be happy to answer them.

Woman: But it won't take a minute. I'd rather speak to him. Can I not just go up and talk to him?

Me: I'm sorry but he's preparing for a lesson. If you'd like to make an appointment I'll-

Woman: He's in the building?

Me: Yes.

Woman: Then I'll just go and speak to him.

At this point she started walking towards the lift. I got up.

Me: I'm sorry, but if you want to speak to him, you'll have to make an appointment. He's literally teaching a class in 10 minutes.

Woman: This won't take 10 minutes.

Me: That's fine, but the reason I'm not letting you go up and talk to him is because A) he's currently preparing for the class he's about to teach, and B) I have no idea who you are. All guests have to be signed in by a student of member of staff before we let them into the building.

Woman: So you're saying, he's up there right now, and I want to speak to him for a minute and ask some questions, but you won;t let me? Have I got that right?

Woman: If I ask you your name you have to tell it me. I have a right to know your name.

Me: No, you don't. I don't have to tell you anything. You're thinking of the police.

In the most patronising tone of voice I have ever heard -

Woman: Noooooooo, if I ask YOU for your NAME, then YOU have to GIVE it to ME.

Me: No, I assure you I don't. But if it'll make you leave then my name is *PMGT*.

Woman: Right. I'm going now, but just so you know, I'm going to phone back and make a complaint about you. You haven't been very helpful at all.

----

Immediately after this conversation, I sent an email to the relevant people explaining the situation and telling them not to give her the time of day.

She phoned back the next day, and I happened to answer it. She started complaining about me, to me, not realising that it was me on the phone. Her complaints seemed to be "he wouldn't let me do what I wanted to do". I pretended to be someone else and explained, very slowly, that "as we are a college, we have strict rules about people entering the building. You were not willing to comply with those rules so *PMGT* had to remove you from the building. From his account, you were entirely unreasonable when he offered to help and instead tried to actually push past him and essentially force your way into the building, at which point he asked you to leave. I'm sorry, but we will not be looking into your complaint".

The problem here seemed to me that she was the kind of twat that had never had anyone say "no" to her in her life. She came across like a spoilt teenager, despite being around 40 years old (although I dare say she was a lot older, and just looked around 40, as many of these privileged hippie types tend to do...). That combined with the fact that she obviously didn't deem me worthy enough to speak to because I was sat behind a reception desk (despite actually being one of the tutors on the course...). She had clearly walked in, and decided that she was so important that the only person qualified enough to speak to her was the person who ran the whole department. Not one of us lowly scumbags that run the place.

Frankly, I felt embarrassed just to have to engage her in conversation. Had I not been at work, I dare say the conversation would been much shorter, and would have ended with me saying "STOP ACTING LIKE A FUCKING SPOILT BRAT YOU STUPID FUCKING STUCK UP ARROGANT PATRONISING BITCH-COW FROM HELL. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING BUILDING BEFORE I KICK YOU UP THE ARSE."
(PMGT-Bacon., Fri 13 Apr 2012, 14:23,
8 replies)

On the Tube last week
I watched as a bloke ran on to the train on the northern line. The doors were already closing, but not wanting to wait another 3 mins for the next train, managed to fit an arm through the door before they closed, then forced them open. He then squidged himself on. Much to the dismay of the cramped passengers on the other side of the door.

The doors then slammed shut behind him.

I then noticed his beige rain mac hadnt made it through the door as well as he had, and was sticking a clear 1-2 foot out into the air. I giggle, we all giggle. Twat man has had his day.

He then sees us all giggling and with a smirk on his face begins to pull his coat through the doors... until it jams... Why had it stopped? because there was a great big brown button jamming it on the outside - preventing it from being pulled through.

Then I heard the whine of the motors start up and away he went...

His coat was still 1 foot clear of the train sticking out. As it ran down the platform it would waft past and slap people knocking peoples newspapers.

God knows what state it was in by the time he got to the next station.
(Dan dan danThey tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 18 Apr 2012, 14:04,
8 replies)

A relative of mine
I think she's sort of my dad's second cousin (she's my great aunt's daughter).

Anyway. My great aunt was a lovely old lady who, for the last five or so years of her life, shared her cosy little cottage with a fella - she was divorced and he was a widower, and being in their seventies, they didn't want to bother with the formality of remarrying. They really, really should have...

She had complications from a nasty accident, and unfortunately died in hospital, rather unexpectedly (she was quite sprightly). This is where it gets twattish.

Her daughter first of all asked my dad to contribute towards the funeral. This was a bit odd because 1) It wasn't his mother, 2) weird relative is apparently quite well off, and 3) Ted (Auntie's bloke) found out about it, and rang my dad to let him know that Auntie had a policy to cover the costs of the funeral and there was absolutely no need for anyone to be giving her daughter any money.

Secondly, she told Ted to move out of the cottage. Now - this is actually understandable, and it had been left to her in the will, etc. However, she asked him to move out within the week - so he was having pack his stuff up and arrange to move in with relatives whilst also preparing for the funeral!

Thirdly, after Ted had moved out, she wanted to sell the house as soon as possible, so she ignored my father's request to be able to pick a few things up from there (Auntie had held onto a load of old family photos and such from my Grandmother's house after she'd died a few years before), and just threw everything in a skip. EVERYTHING. Including some of Ted's possessions that he'd been foolish enough to hope she'd let him go back later in the week and collect.

This means that my Dad lost lots and lots of his Mum's stuff, as well as older family heirlooms. When he contacted said Relative again and asked her if he could at least have copies of any old photos she'd kept, she told him flatly that it 'was all rubbish' and she'd thrown it away.

Naturally, this drove a rift between the two sides of the family and my Dad didn't speak to her for years...

Until, out of the blue, she phoned him to ask if he'd mind putting her and her daughter up for a weekend so she could attend a party near his home.

Some twat in the V&A...
was queuing in front of me and ordered "two cappuccini". I just looked at him in disgust. I mean, great, you pluralised an Italian word with the correct Italian form. Fan-fucking-tastic you massive twat. Now go home and test your pasta by throwing a lone spaghetto at the wall and seeing if it sticks, or going out and drawing a single graffito on the wall. Fuck it...why stop there? Let's go out and order multiple pizze? We don't have to eat at one place...we could try a number of ristoranti. I do like my seafood, maybe we could order squid? Oh, you only have one calimaro for the table? Better try the octopodes. Is that a paparazzo over there taking a photo of Brangelina?

Customer consultation
It was a busy day at the petrol station. I'd chosen my lane, and there were too many people queueing for other pumps - and behind me in the queue for this one - for me to be able to change my mind. No matter. There was only one car in front of me: I could wait a couple of minutes.

It was a family in the car. The driver sidled up to the pump, and got out as if to fill the tank.

He did not fill the tank.

I watched with some amazement as he walked to the little shop, and gazed intently for a couple of minutes at the sweet display, then walked back to the car. He leaned in and said something to the passengers. They said something back. My amazement turned to utter disbelief as he walked back to the shop, selected something from the rack, and queued to pay.

Eventually getting back to his car, he leaned back in to give the sweets to his family. And only then did he fill up, before wandering back to that very same shop to queue a second time to pay.

Summer job helping out at a country fair...
Twat screams onto the car park (read field) in an escort with a ridiculous (and very low) body kit scattering parents and children in all directions in a flight for their lives. I flag said twat down and politely ask him if he'd slow down and warn him that the fields not very flat. He promptly told me to do something unspeakable to myself and sped off......

*CRUNCH*

Twat climbs out of his car, walks round the back to retrieve the now detached (and mangled cos he ran over it) front half of his body kit and proceeds to cram it in the boot of his escort....before deciding to leave.
(repooc, Thu 12 Apr 2012, 18:54,
Reply)

The missus' little Micra recently failed its MOT fairly spectacularly. '17 hours of welding' was mentioned, at which point we flogged it for £150 to the slavering mechanic who - if I read him correctly - was actually LOOKING FORWARD to spending an entire waking day with his torch in his hand.

And off we went on the second-hand car trail. Being the conscientious husband, I had a scout round some local yards and press in advance, and presented wifey with a shortlist on Saturday morning.

We went about it astutely and by mid-afternoon had put tentative ticks by a few of them. Our final stop was the car yard close to our home, where I had seen a five-year-old Ford Ka in decent nick for under £3,000.

A swift test-drive and tinker under the bonnet later, and we drove back to the forecourt where Mr Twatty Dealer was hanging around smirking with a couple of his twatty friends. I kicked off my bargaining position with:

"Sorry, mate. Not for us."

The chap looked genuinely amazed.

"Why not?"

"There's cold start damage, the alternator's packed up, it needs a new clutch and new front brake pads, front tracking is off, the crankshaft rattles at low revs, and the stereo's broke"

"Oh. Really?"

Fuck's sake! Had this man actually so much as set foot in the car he was attempted to sell? Well, yes, of course he had. He'd very kindly put £1:20 worth of petrol in it and changed the pine air freshener for our test drive.

I started the engine. Immediately the crankshaft started clanking about like Douglas Bader in a washing machine.

At this point, one of his mates chips in.

"Nah, mate. All Ka's make that noise."

"No they don't."

Sales technique number two not having gone according to plan, Mr Twatty D comes back with an offer that will almost certainly lose him money. Yes...LOSING money - a whole new way of life for people in the sales business:

"Er...if I fix all them problems, would you take it?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Bye, then."

"Want to give that Citroen a test drive?"

"No thanks."

"Why not?"

"It's 10 years old, has 140,000 on the clock and is an automatic. Plus, Citroens cost a fortune to service."

"Automatic? Really?"

We left at that point before he fell into genuine danger of losing the intellectual assets of his business to his Golden Retriever (who was very sweet and friendly, by the way).

There's no twat like a car salesman twat. Even if they are sometimes a pathetic twat.
(ousggis not seeking approval, Mon 16 Apr 2012, 23:41,
6 replies)

I can kind of forgive this one
because it was twattishness done to a twat.

A couple of years ago there was this slobbish, loudmouthed, lazy prick at work who used to spend most of his time skiving and moaning. He lived for freebies - the only time he ever picked up the phone was to try and get himself invited to parties or lunches with suppliers. We all hated him.

Anyway, one week it was his last Friday in the office before he was off on holiday in the Spain for a week with his girlfriend. He'd been on about this for ages, telling us how it was costing a bomb, but only the best for him, etc. etc. Despite living for freebies, he always liked to give the impression of being loaded, despite the fact he evidently wasn't, and we certainly weren't paying him much.

Anyway. Since it was a nice sunny Friday, the boss offered to take us all out for a few beers on expenses. We decamped to the pub, set up a tab, and proceeded to build up an impressive expense. Twat Boy was also buying drinks for his mate who'd turned up, then got a round of shots in. All of it on the tab. The boss did not look impressed, but said nothing, and let him carry on.

Come 6pm, we're all thoroughly smashed, and the boss stands up to go home. "Right - I better get back or the wife and kill me. No reason for you lot not to carry on though - Twat Boy, give me your card and I'll just ask them to swap it for mine on the tab."

Ashen faced, but not wanting to look like he was bothered, Twat Boy duly handed over his card, whilst the boss headed off home, knowing perfectly well that Twat Boy wouldn't be able to fill out an expense form until he was back from holiday, and was about to head off on his costly romantic week away with a stonking great hole in his bank balance.

Never drench the inspector.
One of my closest friends works for the county as a plan review engineer in the commercial department. Among his duties he sometimes is called upon to do site visits and inspections, which he normally books for the later part of the week when most of his mandatory meetings have been done.

One of the largest projects going on in the county at this point is a multi-billion dollar banking center being constructed by one of the world's biggest banks. It's a multistory building, and at certain stages inspections must be done throughout the building. As it was going to be a long inspection, Richard went out there first thing in the morning, planning to be there for most of the day.

He parked outside of the site, put on his blaze yellow vest and white hardhat, collected his plans and other papers, and walked down the construction road. There was plenty of site work being done, so he didn't hear the truck approach from behind as he was almost to the building, but was walking along the edge of the road for safety. The truck pulled up alongside him, and the driver waited until he was almost past Richard before blowing his horn and waving.

The truck was the water truck, which sprays non-potable water (meaning old stormwater pumped in from some swampy area) over the construction roads to keep down dust. The blast on the horn and the wave coincided with Richard getting blasted with a couple hundred gallons of swamp water.

Richard turned around and calmly walked to his car, where he took off his boots and poured out filth. The fire inspector was going by, so Richard called out, "Hey, are you going to see the general contractor?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way there.... are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Tell him that the entire site just failed inspection and is now shut down until we re-inspect."

What this translates to is that the 250 plus people who work the site around the clock were forced to do nothing until Richard came back to that site. This was last Friday, and I believe he had to go to a training seminar for the first part of the week. He may be back by now, but I'm not sure of that.

Total cost of being a twat and hosing down the county inspector with swamp water: probably in excess of $50,000, if Richard returned today.

Not hearing directly from the contractor, but hearing through the grapevine that he was shitting himself while he waits like a spanked puppy for Richard to re-appear: priceless.
(The Resident LoonNot a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 12 Apr 2012, 18:59,
16 replies)

Teenage boys.
OK, it's an easy target. Everyone knows that teenage boys are twats for at least most of the time. Those of us who have been teenage boys know this more acutely than we'd like to admit.

But there's one thing in particular about teenage boys that's remarkably twattish, and seems to be comparatively recent.

Hands in the trousers.

There are times when you find yourself with nothing to carry, and your arms hanging listlessly by your side like... oh, like asparagus on the reduced-to-clear rack; and this is one of the reasons why pockets are great things. They give you somewhere to put your hands when you've nothing in them.

So why in the name of Jesus Radioactive Christ and all his glow-in-the-dark disciples does it strike a significant portion of the acned youth of this isle that the best thing to do with their hands would be to thrust them down the front of their trousers? It's bad enough that the jeans-wearing demographic thinks it acceptable to have a waistline sagging somewhere south of their buttocks; but the trackies-wearing demographic has decided that there's just too much dignity in that. So it's down the front of the trousers the hands go.

In public.

In shops.

They presumably do things like shake hands, and inspect goods for sale (even if it's only so they know what they're about to steal) - which means that they do so with hands that have recently been far too close to comfort to their doubtless repulsive genitalia. And, let's face it: the trackies demographic is not the demographic most likely to bother the shower gel.

If it's true that there's only six degrees of separation between any two people anywhere on the planet, this suggests that there can be only one or two degrees of separation between anything that anyone does, and the ballsack of one of nature's spottier specimens.

Just think about it. Look at the things in your fruitbowl, or the change in your pocket. Would you want to fill your house with items recovered from the vicinity of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant? Unlikely. And yet we cannot help but to fill our dwellings with items that may well be much more heavily contaminated, even if only indirectly, with grot from the groin of a sunken-eyed 17-year-old. (Although, come to think of it, fruit might be one of the few things that doesn't really get their attention.)

I bought a house in tropical Queensland, lovely old place, built about 1925, all good timber and a veranda out the front. The kitchen and bathroom had been modernised decently but apart from repainting, the rest of the interior was original.

There were gorgeous skirting boards with ogive tops and matching architraves. Fretwork ventilators above the genuine 3-panel doors, a picture rail and really high ceilings. I scoured local lighting shops for fittings that were close to 1920-ish and got a vintage looking ceiling fan. I took the brass window latches off the 8-pane windows, cleaned off years of tarnish and paint splash, polished, lacquered and put them back on freshly painted windows. Lovely.

A few years later I moved away, then when passing through the town called in on old neighbors. While I was there the third set of owners after me called in. So I used to own No. 31? Well, yes. Oh, we have been doing some work, come in for a look.

They'd ripped out out the lovely old skirting boards, the architraves and the picture rails and sheeted over the timber wall boards with featureless plasterboard. The 8-pane hinged windows that caught every stray breeze were gone, replaced by sliding aluminium framed panes that caught nothing. The interior looked like it had been built the week before.

Mechanic twat
My wife recently bought an new old car from a guy in the paper. It was lovely on the drive home and we parked it in front of the mechanic's shop a couple of doors down from our flat.

Next morning wife gets in, turns the key, engine roars to life then cuts out. She tries again, engine roars into life for a second and dies again. After about 20 attempts she comes to get me, I get in and try, the same thing happens over and over. By this time all the guys from the mechanic's shop have come out to have a look at what we are doing, they are standing in the doorway apparently amused by our troubles.

It dawns on us that we have been ripped of bought a duff car and wasted the best part of £2000. I do the walk of shame and ask the mechanics if they could take a look.

four of them walk over, umming and ahhing, sucking through their teeth, scratching their chins, they open the bonnet, look under the car, lift up the carpets, kick the tyres.

Mech "new car"Me "yeah, got it yesterday"Mech "how much?"Me "£2k"Mech "oh dear oh dear, did you get a warranty?"Me "no"Mech "and now it won't even start?"

By this point his mate can't hold it in any longer and bursts out laughing. I can't see anything funny with the situation, I have just been ripped off to the tune of £2k and my wife has no way to get to work I snap

"look, is it expensive to fix?"

Mechanic takes a long hard look at me and slowly says

"No, See the button on the back of your key? It turns the immobiliser off. Press it"

Twats had realised the moment my wife had tried to start the car that the immobiliser was on but wanted to see how long it would take us to ask for help.

I have never been happier to realise someone was being a twat.
(zaidin, Fri 13 Apr 2012, 9:31,
5 replies)

Escalators
People who step off the end of an escalator and stop, blissfully unaware of the 100 people moving inexorably behind them.
(SausageWarriordestination Zululand, come on boys jump in the van, Fri 13 Apr 2012, 8:26,
10 replies)

Prepared for flaming...
I nominate the twat of a cyclist last Friday morning outside Blackfriars station.

The lycra-clad loon decided he didn't need to stop at the lights like the other cyclist and cars, but instead could mount the pavement and cycle towards me instead.

I did warn him ("Get off the fucking pavement you twat") but it only encouraged him to peddle more furiously and aim right at me - just where the pavement got a bit narrow.

I side-stepped at the last second and gave him a gentle push, which was all that was needed really as he was going a fair rate. The clatter as he went base-over-apex into a lamppost was quite satisfying, but not as good as hearing the cyclists stopped at the lights having a go at him when he started bleating.

Cyclists - you can love 'em and hate 'em at the same time :-)
(Kliper FillletsGetting noticed by twats on the internet since, Tue 17 Apr 2012, 8:13,
110 replies)

Two for one twattishness...
A couple of years back, my wife and I had popped to the local pub for lunch and refreshment (for her, I was driving and so being a good man/evil corporate consumer opted for famous brand of sugary Cola)

After a rather nice eating session, the pub was filling up so we decided to call it a day and pay, before it got too busy. Off we go to the till, table-identifying spoon in hand and arrived behind an elderly lady ordering for her table. Alas, it was either a very large food order or a mortgage application, as we were there for a while. But "not a problem" thinks I, for am well fed, it is a nice day and my mood is good, so I happily wait.

Eventually the order is complete, a spoon deployed and happy elderly lady is off back to join her family. "Who's next please?" asks the man at the till, looking in my direction.

"Ah.." I begin, readty to proceed. But before I can even lift my foot to take a step forward into my rightful place at the till, a shrill voice calls out "Yes! I want..." I look to my right, and from nowhere a harradrian has arrived at the bar, stealthier than a velvet-clad ninja in a black room, and hurridely shuffles her way along to the till, in a blatant act of queue jumping. The man at the till smiles the warm smile of servers everywhere and says "Yes love, what can I get you?", and said harradrian proceeds to order a round of drinks.

I look up at the sign over the till that says "Food Orders". Yes, I am definitely in the right place. I look at my wife. Yep, she's in the right place too. I look at my hand. I can see it, so I'm probably not invisible. My wife looks at it too, then back at me with a "what are you lookin at your hand for, you daft twat?" expression. Definitely not invisible.

So dear reader, what do I do? I queue. I do not rant, I do not rave, I do not even protest, for I am a gentleman and an Englishman, with generations of queueing and politeness coursing through my veins. I stand my ground and queue harder than I can remember, an indignant beacaon of How Things Should Be Done, shining against the darkness of the rude and the impolite.

As the harradrian conducts her business and I am busy queueing, another middle-aged lady appears on my left. "Are you in the queue?" she enquires, looking at me and failing to observe my wallet, spoon, coat or infact the general "I am in the queue to pay" aurora that is emenating from me.

"Nay good woman, my wife and I are waiting for the next train to London" I am tempted to say, but looking at her again I realise that 747s fly at a lower altitude than how far above her this snippet would be.

"Yes, we are" I reply with a smile, expecting her to form up behind us.

"Oh, okay" she replies warmly, but proceeds to move exactly nowhere.

Harradrian's business concludes and she starts to move off. "Next, please?" enquires the barman, waiting for his next customer

"I am!" states the woman to my left, making her way forward towards the till.This was too much, even for my vast reserve of Gentleman-ness and Patience. I can deal with one person taking their time. I can deal with another person moving down the bar to take the place that was rightfully mine. But the line is drawn at the cheek of someone pushing in who had the brazenness to stand next to me and ask if I was queueing.

Inside, I snap. But again I do not shout, I do not threaten. I simply step forward and say in a pleasant, non-threatening voice "I'm sorry but she's not. We were here first and I would like to pay, please"

The woman looks at me like I've started to publicly masturbate on her shoes. The barman looks at me like I'd admitted to being an acquaintance of Gary Glitter.

"There's no need to take that tone!" says the barman as he takes my spoon and rings up my bill in silence. He grunts as the amount is displayed and looks away in disdain as I enter my PIN. Something inside snaps again, and this time the ancient Celtic blood in me boils forth. "PUT THE SPOON THROUGH FUCKING HIS EYE!" The voice in my head rages. "STICK HIS CARDREADER SO FAR UP HIS ARSE THE WIRE LOOKS LIKE A TAIL! WE'LL SHOW HIM THAT TONE!"

But I ignore the voice. I withdraw my card from the machine promptly and put it back in my wallet. My eye lingers on the five pound note nestling in the rear section (steady there!) I look at the barman's suddenly expectant face, and then down at the small bowl of coins on the bar with a note on it reading "Tips for Staff. Thankyou".

I then have my revenge. The finest, sweetest revenge any Englishman could have in such a situation. "You'll be lucky" I mutter, putting my wallet away and heading for the door, leaving shocked woman and barman behind me.
(CaptnJackisn't really called Jack!, Fri 13 Apr 2012, 15:27,
5 replies)

Excuse me, I'm very important
After filling up my car at the petrol station, I walked in to the shop to pay. There are two rows of shelves lining the route to the till. I can see a man at the till paying, so I stand approximately 3 feet behind him and wait. I make sure I stand over to one side of the 4 foot-ish corridor formed by these shelves, so that when he turns round, he can get out easily.

He finishes paying and turns round and glares at me. "EXCUSE ME!" he says glaring at the centimetre gap between my right shoulder and the shelves. I meet his glare and slowly swivel my eyes to look at the three foot gap between my left shoulder and the opposite shelving.

I look back at him...more glaring...eyes swivel back to the huge gap I've left...look back at him again...penny drops that I don't subscribe to his own sense of self importance.